Dead or Alive
by Ptrst
Summary: Rated PG13 for drug use, death scenes, and that kind of junk. Draco refuses to join the Dark Lord, and he's willing to do anything to escape it, even die. I suck at summaries and titles, just read it. ON HIATUS
1. 1 Desperation

"No, I refuse. I won't bow down before anyone, even if he is the Dark Lord." Eighteen-year old Draco Malfoy was having the same argument with his father. Lucius wanted him to become a Death Eater, and Draco didn't want to be below anyone. But this time, it was more serious. Lord Voldemort had decided that Draco's Dark Mark ceremony was to take place in three days. If he refused, he would be killed. Still, not even the threat of death would allow Draco to concede to anyone's will but his own.

"Draco, you will get the Mark, and you will get it in three days, as the Lord has declared!" Lucius' cold silver eyes, so like his son's, flashed dangerously.

"No, Father, I will not. I will die before I become a servant to anyone, least of all a mudblood!" It was true; Voldemort's father had been a muggle. His power was such, though, that it mattered to almost no one what His heritage was. Few dared to speak of it anyway; there was no way of knowing when He would be listening.

"Then die you shall, for no one escapes the will of the Dark Lord!"

"If that is the price to pay for being my own master, then I will pay it," he said simply. The pride and arrogance he held during his stay at Hogwarts had not subsided in the least since his graduation from it; in the year since he had left Hogwarts, he had become, if anything, more stubborn and proud. In truth, he feared the pain and death he had just earned, for even if he received the Mark, he would pay for his words; but nothing would stop him from having his own will be done.

"For your sake, Draco, I hope you change your mind." Lucius walked out of the large, finely decorated room and slammed the door after him, muttering slightly to himself. Draco just stood in the center of the room, hard-faced, staring at the door with his cold grey eyes.

Once he knew his father was out of earshot, Draco threw himself down into a chair and closed his eyes, thinking. He didn't want to die, but he refused to join the ranks of the Death Eaters. What were his options? He thought for a wild moment about killing himself, not giving Lord Voldemort the chance to torture him, but he quickly shook the thought out of his head. He didn't want to die, by any hand.

Suddenly, inspiration struck. _If He thinks I'm dead, he won't bother killing me._ He knew he could fake his death easily, but there was a problem. Once everyone thought him dead, he would have nowhere to go. The Dark Lord's servants were many; if any of them saw him, they would not hesitate to end his existence. There was only one solution; he would have to find somewhere to live, a permanent residence where there was no chance of him being caught.

He needed protection from the enemies he was about to make, and could think of only one person who would be willing and able to give it to him. Desperate, he went to his bedroom and pulled out a quill and some ink. On a piece of parchment, he wrote:

_I'm refusing the Dark Mark, and I need protection. Will you give it to me?_

_D.M._

He wrote the name "Dumbledore" on the outside and gave it to his owl, which promptly flew out the window and into the black, moonless night. He sighed softly and hoped for a quick response before lying down on his bed and falling into a light, wary sleep.

The owl came late the next morning. Draco had not left his bedroom since he wrote the letter the previous night. His stomach was craving food, but he ignored its pleas, not wanting anyone besides himself to find the owl. It would have to be a secret, and secrets were not easily kept from the Dark Lord.

He jumped when the owl tapped on the window; he had been deep in thought about what would happen. He tore the letter off of the owl, frightening it, and read the letter written in large, loopy handwriting.

_I offer protection to anyone who is not loyal to Lord Voldemort. Be in the Leaky Cauldron tonight at __6 o'clock__, and we'll discuss the problem at hand._

Draco was hardly pleased with the answer. He didn't have the time to sit around talking; he needed action. He had to fake his death in two days, and he still didn't know if he had anywhere to go. But Dumbledore had said he offered his protection, and that was better than nothing.

Finally, he didn't have to worry about the owl being intercepted, so he went into the kitchen and ate. He had to get it himself for once; some organization called 'spew' or something had successfully passed legislation to free all house elves.

As always, his father was gone. If it weren't for the fact that Lucius always left in the early hours of the morning and usually didn't come back until late at night, Draco would have gone against his father's wishes and moved out. His mother was in St. Mungo's. She had cursed herself within an inch of her life when Lucius was sent to Azkaban, ashamed of her family. The Malfoys were supposed to do whatever they want, then pay off the Ministry later; but for once, bribery wasn't an option. The family name was disgraced.

He ate quickly and glanced at the clock; it was 12:30 p.m. Five and a half hours until his fate was decided. He went back up to his room and started putting a few things into his bags; if it was to be done properly, he would need to be able to take whatever he needed quickly and leave. He couldn't take everything; anything that would be missed would have to stay. He put two sets of robes and a cloak into the bag. If he took anything more, it would be obvious that things were missing, which would result in questions about who took them, which would not be good for him. He stuffed it under his bed, in case his father found a reason to go into his bedroom. It was not a likely possibility, but he wasn't taking any chances.

It was 2 o'clock by the time he had taken a shower and gotten dressed, and he couldn't stand to spend another minute in his father's house. He thought about how he was going to get to The Leaky Cauldron. Briefly, he considered apparating, but it was too dangerous; he was likely to be sensed somehow by the Dark Lord and intercepted. Flying, too, was out of the question; he might be seen by a muggle or Death Eater. Disgusted, he realized he had only one option: The Knight Bus.

He considered the Knight Bus to be below him. It was for common wizards, not Malfoys. But there was no other option for him. He, of course, knew how to call the Knight Bus. Just stick out your wand arm, and it'll come. He cautiously stepped outside his house, though no one was watching him, and walked to the edge of the property. Once he was standing on ground he didn't own, he held out his right arm and jumped back when he heard a loud BANG. A young man, not much older than himself, stepped out and began to talk.

"'Ello. My name's Stan Shunpike, and this 'ere's the Knight Bus, emergency transport for the stranded witch or wizard. It costs –" Draco cut him off.

"The price doesn't matter. Can this – thing get me to the Leaky Cauldron in London?" Draco was unsure of its capabilities.

"It'll take you anywhere on land," he nodded.

He was doubtful of that claim, but had no choice. He stepped onto the purple, triple-decker bus, giving a handful of wizard gold to Stan.

"Right then," said Stan, staring at the money in awe and debating whether or not to give Draco the change. He held out most of the gold and offered it to Draco, who shook his head.

"Keep it. I won't be needing it."

Stan shook himself out of his temporary, money-induced stupor. "Where was it 'choo said you 'ad to go, Mr. …?"

He ignored the request for his name. "Leaky Cauldron. London. I'm in no hurry, but I have to be there by six."

Stan nodded. "Can do."

Draco sat down on a chair on the uppermost level of the bus, where it was completely deserted. Somehow, between the frequent BANGs, the jumps the bus made, and the nauseating feeling of growing hopelessness, he managed to fall asleep, and was woken by Stan telling him he was at his destination. He came to full consciousness within seconds and walked off the bus.

By the watch on his wrist he saw that it was 5:38. He had roughly twenty minutes until his meeting. Slowly, he walked into the small, dingy building, looking around warily for anyone who might notice him. He opened the door and walked in. He was only slightly surprised to see Albus Dumbledore sitting at a table in the back with a several other people, most of whom Draco didn't recognize. He did, however, recognize Saint Potter, the Weasel King, and the Mudblood. There were also several older people with them. Draco hesitated, not sure whether he should wait for the rest of them to leave.

Dumbledore looked up and saw Draco Malfoy standing near the door to the Leaky Cauldron, looking hesitant. He gestured for him to join the group.

"Mr. Malfoy." Draco shot him a warning look at the mention of his name. Dumbledore didn't seem to notice. "I wasn't expecting you for another twenty minutes. But perhaps it is better that you were here. We were just discussing your – er – situation. Figuring out what would be best, for everyone. Sit, please." He gestured to an empty chair opposite himself that had not been there when Draco walked in. Draco did as he was asked. "Now, it is a lucky chance that you came early; in your letter, you seemed to have forgotten to tell me what I need to know. So, please, start at the beginning. Don't be afraid; none of His servants are here tonight. I made sure of that."

Draco briefly wondered how, but decided it wasn't important. "As you know, my father is Lucius Malfoy, a Death Eater. Most of my life, he has been teaching me Dark Magic, trying to lead me to the side of the Dark Lord.

It was not until recently that I decided against it; when I came of age, I realized that magic would be a waste if I used it for someone else." There was no point in lying; if he tried to tell Dumbledore that he hated his father and wanted to fight on the side of Saint Potter, he would know. "I refuse to bow before anyone. The Dark Lord is no exception.

"My father expects me to get the Dark Mark on my arm soon. The Dark Lord has declared that the ceremony will take place in two days time. I want to refuse, but I don't want to die by his hand.

"What I intend to do, if you will help me, is fake my own death before the ceremony, then go into hiding. I can fake my death easily enough; all it takes is a potion, which I already have, and I'll be 'dead' for about a week. My father will have me buried in the family graveyard, near our manor. Tradition's important to him, there's no chance of him doing anything else.

"What I need is a place to stay, safe from the Dark Lord's servants. I'm not asking for charity. In exchange, I can give you information, money, almost anything. Will you grant me that?"

Potter didn't believe him. "How do we know you're telling the truth, that you're not a spy?"

"What kind of proof can I give you? I don't have the Mark, though everyone except my father believes I'm going to receive it in two days; I'm not exactly in the position to kill a Death Eater and bring you their body; what kind of proof is there? Feel free to look in my mind, if that will assuage your fears. I know that Dumbledore, at least, is an extremely skilled Legillmens." He spoke simply, hiding the fact that he was getting irritated.

"I sense no lies, Harry. And his information would be invaluable to us."

There was never any point in arguing with Albus Dumbledore. No matter what, he always won. "If you think he's telling the truth, I believe him," said Harry, though he still looked skeptical.

"Do you think that Headquarters would be an acceptable residence? As I understand it, there are still quite a few uninhabitable rooms."

"I suppose he could make himself useful." He seemed to consider it for some time before finally, "All right. But if it even **seems** like he's working for Voldemort," Draco winced slightly at the name, though not as much as most wizards would, "he's out, and I don't care if there're fifty Death Eaters standing outside waiting for him." He turned to Draco. "Listen carefully, because I'm not going to repeat this. Your Death Eater ceremony takes place in two days, right?" Draco nodded. "Tomorrow, then, take the potion. One week after, exactly, someone will retrieve you from your grave. You will stay in a safe-house until you wake up. Once you do, Dumbledore will tell you where to go. If I find out that you've breathed one word of this to anyone, you will be dead, I guarantee you. Do you understand?" Harry had spoken seriously, and Draco had listened to every syllable as if his life depended on it; because, in fact, it did. He thought quickly; now was his last chance. He would be joining up with his enemies: The-Boy-Who-Lived-To-Be-A-Pain-In-The-Ass, the mudblood, and the Weasel King. He would be betraying his father, going against his entire family. Was it worth it?

"Yes," he said solemnly. "I understand."

"If all goes as planned, I will see you in eight days time," spoke Dumbledore. "Good luck."

Draco nodded, stood up, and walked out of the pub, sticking his arm out once more, summoning the Knight Bus. "Malfoy Manor. I trust the gold from earlier is enough to cover it," he told Stan. _God, what have I gotten myself into?_


	2. 2 Faking it and the Sign

**Author's Note: So, this is chapter two. I sincerely hope that you enjoyed reading chapter one more than I enjoyed writing it (I had some trouble finishing it), and I also hope you like this chapter. In particular, I had great fun writing the first sentence of this chapter. Oh, and pardon the time lapse later in this chapter. The story, thus far, is being told exclusively from Draco's POV, 3rd person, so bear with me, please. Please note that all reviews are appreciated, whether they be flames, short, one-line notes, or long, detailed constrictive criticism and praise, but I would definitely prefer the latter. When it comes to reviewing my story, my motto is this: If you don't have anything nice to say… Tell me what sucks! Okay, Go ahead and read now.**

When the violently purple Knight Bus stopped in front of Draco Malfoy's house, he looked around warily before he stepped off, convinced, for some reason, that he had been followed and was about to be attacked by a horde of bloodthirsty Death Eaters, even though he had the word of Albus Dumbledore, a man who had never lied in his life, that no one who would use the information to harm Draco could have possibly been present. Of course, his mind was playing tricks on him; there was no mob waiting at his front door to destroy him. It was still relatively early by Draco's standards, only nine o'clock, and his father wasn't due home for quite a while. He decided to take advantage of the peace and begin faking his death.

The potion was one that he had found during his seventh year at Hogwarts; Snape had assigned his NEWT class to locate a Level 3 potion, one that only certain Ministry employees had permission to make, and write a 4 foot essay on why the potion was forbidden to the general public. Draco, however, had done more than that. After finishing his essay, he decided to make the potion; he had no right or reason to at the time, nor did he have any special purpose to save it, but now he was glad that he did.

Draco knew that in order for his death to be convincing, it would take more than just drinking the potion; and that was why he was grateful for the fact that his father was never home. He walked through the giant house into his bedroom, which he unlocked with a special charm of his invention. He went without hesitation into his bathroom, where he charmed open a hidden panel next to the sink. He thought for only a moment about which potion it was; the panel housed many illegal objects he didn't want his father to know he had. He quickly remembered which potion was the proper one, and took it out, muttering the incantation which kept it hidden.

He paused a second, thinking of how he was to do it. The potion would stop all of his bodily functions; breathing, heartbeat, metabolism; everything that kept him alive would be shut off for a full week, then turned back on. He decided to make it look like he gave himself an _Avada kedavra_ to the chest. He pulled out a piece of parchment and his best quill, and began to write.

_Father _

_I told you that I would never follow your Lord. You made your mistake years ago, and I'm not making the same one. I refuse to die by his hand, or any hand other than my own. My decision will never change; I refuse to serve under anyone's name but my own. With my death, you are finally free of your family for good. Make your own choices, and make them wisely, for now there is no one to clean up your messes for you._

_Draco_

Draco didn't have much experience in writing suicide notes; after all, most people only have the chance to make one. But he thought it sounded good enough. Now, to the really hard part; fooling the Ministry into thinking he was dead. He would, of course, have to perform Avada Kedavra at the precise time he drank the potion. He knew that if he 'killed' himself in his bedroom, the 'body' would most likely not be found until after the potion wore off. He didn't want to go into the entrance hall, because someone might see him. He had a stroke of brilliance: his father's bedroom. He remembered reading that, after the potion had been drank, the user had precisely one minute until the effects fully kicked in. In that one minute, he would have to dispose of the empty bottle and perform the curse. He called a house-elf, Slinky **(a/n: I couldn't resist)** into his father's bedroom. Holding his wand, the note, and the full bottle of potion, he told the house-elf to dispose of the bottle in a place where it would never be found, and gave it a direct order to tell anyone who asked that he had performed an Unforgivable on himself.

He set the note down on a bedside table, weighing it down with the paperweight he had instructed Slinky to bring. Forcing himself, he opened the bottle and quickly swallowed the entire contents in one foul-tasting gulp. Feeling a tad dizzy, he dropped the bottle and pulled out his wand. Willing the room to stop spinning, he pulled out his wand and aimed for a fly that was buzzing around annoyingly.

"Avada Kedavra!" he half-yelled, half-stuttered, hoping to God that he had performed it right. Making sure his wand was still being held firmly in his hand, he gestured clumsily for Slinky to leave with the bottle, and saw the elf bending over to reach it before everything went black.

"I'm starting to get worried, Vernon," said a voice that sounded like it was miles away. "It's been almost two weeks now, and he's still out. According to Harry, he was supposed to wake up a week ago." There was a quiet reply, and what sounded like a door closing. Draco tried to clear his mind; something wasn't right. Where was he? And he had been gone for almost two weeks? That couldn't possibly be right…

Groggily, he opened his eyes slightly. The room he was in was completely white, and so clean the walls shone. The whiteness was too bright for the eyes that had been closed for so long, and he groaned slightly, shutting his eyes tightly in an effort to block out the light.

"About time," said the voice again, now completely devoid of any emotion besides annoyance. "You were supposed to wake up six days ago. What took you so long?"

Draco really didn't want to be questioned. The room was spinning, and his thoughts were… fuzzy. It felt like he had just taken the potion again, but in reverse; the room was slowing down, and his mind was regaining its usual composure and straightforwardness. Suddenly, his first clear thought in over a week came to him.

"Who are you?" He sat up straight in the bed. The effort was almost more than he had, and it made his head throb.

"None of your business," she snapped. "Suffice it to say I've been taking care of you these past eleven days. Now lay down again, you haven't the strength."

He ignored her command. "Well, what are you then?" He was going to get some answers. "Are you a - a muggle?" he asked cautiously, not wanting her to be.

"I'm no witch, if that's what you mean. I believe the term you use is _squig_."

"You mean a squib?"

"Oh, yes, that thing. Whatever you call it. Come from a rather long line of these – what do you call them? Squibs?" He nodded. "My sister was a witch, though, first in generations. And she married a wizard and had a son, and he's a wizard, too now, so I guess your word – squib – would be better suited than muggle." Her voice had lost most – if not all – of its harshness. Draco could tell she hadn't spoken about her heritage in years.

But there had to be some reason why she was deemed trustworthy enough to care for him. Even if he was Draco Malfoy, son of a Death Eater, he had been promised protection. "This son you spoke about – your nephew – did he go to Hogwarts?"

"Of course he went to Hogwarts. About your age, I would guess."

"W-What house was he in?" He was dreading the thing he thought must come next. Sure enough, he was right.

"Gryffindor, just like Lily and James." _Lily and James? As in, Lily and James Potter? Parents of The-Boy-Who-Lived-Just-To-Piss-Me-Off? This cannot be happening. _"Surely, you've heard of my nephew Harry?"

He tried to hide his resentment, and did fairly well at it. "Yeah, I've heard of him."

"You didn't like him, did you?" she asked in a way that made it plain she knew the truth.

"I didn't like him. Despised him, actually."

"That's okay. I didn't like him either." She paused a moment, then suddenly, "Until now, of course. Oh yes, I do love him now. My favorite nephew, don't you know? Love him dearly." She added in an undertone, muttering wildly more to herself than to Draco, "Have to love him, must be good. Must behave properly, treat him like a prince, then they'll leave us alone, and everything will be-" She stopped dead, as if finally remembering Draco was there. "Sorry about that. Don't pay attention to me. Sometimes, I just start talking, and… well, it's nothing," she laughed nervously, making it obvious that it was, indeed, something; Draco had no intentions of finding out what it was, though. He simply rolled his eyes at her madness, wondering why he couldn't have been watched over by someone more… sane.

"Er – yeah." He changed the subject. "So what happens now?"

"I'll have to send Vernon with an owl to Dumbledore, letting him know you're awake. Actually, that's not necessary. When he came by six days ago and you weren't awake, he just said he'd come back again in a week, which would be tomorrow. So you'll stay here for another day, until you recover completely, and then Dumbledore will be by to get you." Draco sighed. He had to spend a full day conscious in this insane woman's care? But there was nothing to do about it.

"I'm hungry," he declared suddenly. It was true; he had naught to eat in two weeks, since breakfast the day of his meeting with Dumbledore.

"Well of course you are. Wait a minute, and I'll be back with some food."

He waited. He waited for about an hour, actually, until he could wait no longer. He got out of the bed (which was surprisingly hard to do) and walked to the door on shaking legs. He stood for a moment, listening at the door for signs of life, but there were none. Cautiously, he opened the door a crack, waiting for some admonishment to come. None came.

Slowly, carefully, he put one unsteady foot down in the hallway. Still, no noise, no voices. He did the same with his other foot. He was standing full in the hallway now, in clear view of anyone who walked by or through it. But there was no one. _This can't be good._

As quickly as he could (which was not very), he walked down the hall until he came to a staircase. He looked around and behind him, wondering where his caretaker was, faintly smelling something burning. No one was in sight. He began his slow descent down the stairs.

He arrived in what seemed to be an informal living room. He was so worried at the lack of people that he forgot to sniff in distaste of the (to him) cheap furnishings. If he had been almost any other person, he would have been calling out for signs of life, but he had not survived being the son of a Death Eater by being incautious. His footsteps, slow as they were, were also soft and noiseless. His eyes were constantly darting around, not focusing on anything but the room as a whole. Still, no sign of anybody.

The smell of burning grew distinctly stronger. He turned around in a full circle, making sure no one was following him, and put his ear to the door in front of him. The warm door. No sounds. He slowly pushed it open and swore.

In front of him lay a too-familiar scene, one that had been shown in newspapers, both muggle and wizard, for years, one that he knew his father had created many times over.

The woman, the aunt of Harry Potter, his mad caretaker, lay flat on the ground, a surprised look on her face that had been in the process of changing to one of fear; next to her lay who Draco assumed to be her husband, and from his expression it was obvious he had been hit from behind. On the stove was the source of the burning smell, what had once been a pan of food and was now little more than ash. In the air above them was the most frightening, disturbing of all; the Dark Mark, a skull with a serpent through the mouth.

He swore again and, realizing there was no other way of leaving, apparated straight to the person of Albus Dumbledore.


End file.
